


Birthday

by pirategirljack



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff, Not Creepy, Sweet, bethyl, demisexual, maybe ace maybe demi?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6731866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirategirljack/pseuds/pirategirljack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth didn't die, is turning nineteen, and wants Daryl for her birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ohgress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohgress/gifts).



> My first TWD fic, and it's making me nervous, but I like how it turned out.

“Tonight’s my birthday,” Beth said brightly one afternoon. 

Daryl eyed her sideways while he cleaned the inner workings of his crossbow, acting like it didn't matter, but he knew that tone. That was the tone she used when she had a Big Idea; he'd heard it often enough in the two years since they rescued her from the hospital and she decided she was never leaving his side again.

“I'm nineteen years old. I want you to take me to bed.”

Daryl choked on the gulp of beer he'd just filled his mouth with and almost sprayed it across the whole table except that this shit was as precious as gold and he wasn't going to waste it like that. But his heart was hammering in his chest.

“No. I don't--that's not--” And then he fled and stayed gone the whole day. 

Beth was disappointed, but she'd really expected it to be worse, dropping it on him like that. And she knew he wouldn't stay gone; he hadn't left her alone for more than a few hours since the day he brought her back, scarred and bandaged, and tended her wounds with his own hands. They'd been sleeping in the same bed for a year, when there were beds. Always with his arm around her. Always with her head on his shoulder. Always with his knife in his other hand, and her knife in hers.

Sometimes he woke terrified, and held her close in the dark, not crying, usually, but no less distraught for the lack. He said he was dreaming about when they'd taken her and he couldn't follow. He dreamed about that a lot.

So she wasn't surprised when he came back from wherever he'd gone before sundown. He always came back before dark. But she was surprised when he reached over her shoulder and placed an old cup stuffed with flowers--mostly roses, her favorite--in front of her. And then reached again, and carefully placed a crumpled but actual chocolate bar right in front of her.

“Happy birthday,” he mumbled, and tried to make a break for it, but she was too fast. He'd taught her that. She spun around and clamped her arms around his waist and squeezed. He could have pulled away, but he didn't. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and smoothed his hand over her hair, just once, before he tilted her head up with his fingers under her chin, dirty and callused, but gentle.

“I didn't forget.”

“Never thought you did,” and she smiled up at him and he almost smiled back.

“What you asked for…” She wanted to take it back now, it was a silly idea, she shouldn't have said anything, but his thumb was lingering on her chin, so tentatively, and that was new, so she held her tongue. “I'm not...into that. Usually. I never have been.”

“You're not--”

“I ain't a virgin. Merle made sure of that. But I never cared about it one way or another. You understand?”

His eyes were so intense. She nodded. He brushed his hand over her cheek and went to put his stuff in order for the night, to check all the doors and windows, to move their camp upstairs, where they'd built a safe place that was easy to defend if walkers somehow made it through their defenses overnight.

She smelled her flowers, ate her candybar and saved the last bite for him, and then took the flowers upstairs, blowing out the candles as she went.

They had a real bed here. This had been someone’s house once. Beth’d found pictures, when they first started staying here on their runs in this direction, a nice family with one kid. She’s put all the pictures in a box lined with a nice handmade blanket and buried it on their third stay, since she couldn't bury the family. 

The bed was big enough that they didn't need to sleep half on top of each other, but they always did anyway, out of habit and a need for comfort when the lights went out, but she thought maybe they'd sleep separate tonight, since she’d made him so uncomfortable. But when she reached the bedroom, Daryl was already there, his boots off, in the middle of the bed like usual. He held out his arm to her, and she crawled into his side where she always slept, waited for him to hand her her knife...but he didn't.

She looked up. He smiled, looking wobbly and more unsure than she’d ever seen him, and it dawned on her that he hadn't turned her down--he'd just given her some information she hadn't figured out on her own.

And he was letting her decide.

She reached up, slowly, and pushed his hair out of his eyes with a shaking hand, then ran her fingers over his cheekbone and his jaw. Scratchy. Always. His arm was still around her shoulders, and his other hand carefully slid up her arm to her shoulder, then to her cheek.

“Do you love me, Daryl.”

“You're my light, Beth. All the light in the world.”

Her heart fluttered, like it had grown wings. “And you'd do this for me? Even though you--don't.”

“I want you to be happy.”

She leaned up and kissed him, gently, figuring it out as she went. It wasn't like that fourteen year old boy she’d kissed when she was twelve. For one, Daryl knew what he was doing. For another, he was so careful, like she might break. But she could feel in that kiss that he did love her, and his hands told her that this wasn't an imposition--that he'd thought about something like this, too, and had decided what to do if it came up. She'd just startled him, is all. 

“You are the most precious man,” she said, breathless and smiling, when she pulled away for air. He had her half on her back, one arm tight around her and one hand on her hip. 

“Are you sure?” He said, his cheek brushing hers, his forehead pressed to hers. “Are you sure it's me you want?” There was disbelief there, insecurity. Who had turned him down when they knew what she knew?

“I've never been more sure.” And she kissed him again, and he gave her the gift she'd asked for, sweetly and thoroughly, looking into her eyes the whole time. He never hurt her. He let her set the pace. Every line of his body told her how much she meant to him. It was better than she'd dreamed, and they didn't go out looking for trouble the next day. They stayed in bed, mostly basking in this new closeness, this new kind of togetherness.

“Happy birthday,” he mumbled into her ear, her shoulder, the curve of her neck, over and over the whole day, as they practiced this new skill, until she laughed and pulled him up for a shower in the bathroom they'd rigged to have something like running water.


End file.
